My writing comes from my thoughts and feelings. It
may be born from a conversation I had with someone or from something I read.
The last few days I have had the urge to write because I couldn’t stop thinking
about a conversation I had with my parents a few days ago.
I emailed them telling them I am stressed out about
my current financial situation. I am not to the point where I need to go back
to the hospital or anything like that. It just sucks not having a job and the
uncertainty of my next source of income. It is a worry that I understand a lot
of people encounter. I am surviving and getting by.
They said something to me that got my attention.
They told me this, “T.J., you have come a
long way and don’t let something like money cause you stress.” I have been
reflecting on that piece of advice for a few days now. And you know what, they
were right. I have come a long way. How far exactly? Let’s return to the turn
of the 2015 calendar.
December 31st, 2015, New Year’s Eve. I
didn’t have a whole lot of options on what to do that night. I had to pick up a
player from the airport the next day, so I decided at 8:00 pm at night I would
drive to Halifax. No idea where I was going to end up. I didn’t care.
Eventually, I got to my best friend’s house a little after 11:00 pm. I wasn’t
in the celebrating mood. I had a few beers and didn’t get drunk. The next
morning I went to my ex’s house to see if I could rekindle the flame.
The information I received that day was the straw
that broke the camel’s back. I just didn’t know it yet. I haven’t told anyone
this part yet, but I had the biggest breakdown of my life later that night. I
had to get to the airport to pick up a player. It was something that I needed
to accomplish. But as I drove to the airport, I began to cry. I cried a lot. I
had to pull in to the gas station located right before the airport. I cried to
the point where I couldn’t catch my breath. I had zero answers. I was a mess. A
disaster in every definition of the meaning.
My eyes were sore from the tears. I waited at the
gas station until I got a text message from the player I was picking up to
inform me he had landed. I wiped the tears from my cheeks. I was fucked. I
couldn’t show my tears to one of my players. I was just glad it was night and
dark so he couldn’t see my eyes. It was one of the toughest emotional moments
of my life. It all had come crashing down and I subsided to the pain. I got the
player and we arrived back in Yarmouth.
Once back to Yarmouth, I went to my empty house that
I rented. It had a bed in it and a recliner. Not much else. It was depressing.
Literally. I can’t remember going to sleep that night. The next day we had
practice and I told my assistant coaches that something was up and I need to
see someone. That was January 2, 2016. That day my life was saved. It didn’t
seem like it at the time, but the next decision I made saved my life. I went to
the hospital.
I was given medication by the doctor. That was the
day I decided to journal my experience. I knew for years that I had Depression,
I just hid it deep inside of me. It ate away at me, deteriorating me as a person.
I lied to some people. Trying to cover up my actions. I can’t recall which of
the following days it was, but I was a few minutes from getting out of bed,
walking downstairs and out to the garage. I didn’t have a suicide note wrote. I
was going to put the SUV into the garage, close the door, and I had a hose
handy. I visualized my final breaths of me coughing and struggling to gasp.
Finally, the pain would be gone and all my problems, too. Writing a letter to
my ex stopped that fantasy from becoming reality. It saved me.
So how far have I come? Well, thinking back, I came
a very long way. Being minutes from deciding to end my life to where I am now,
feeling great and optimistic about life. I had to make a lot of changes but
they were well worth it and necessary for my continuance as a human being.
I was just going for blood work with my parents on
the afternoon of January 11, 2016. Laboratory services were closed for the day.
While we were already at the hospital, my parents suggested I go to outpatients
once again. I was somewhat against it. I remember saying, “I am fine. I don’t
need to go.” Common thought and phrase I used a lot the past years. It was time
for me to get help, even though I was not interested. I was OK with the rotting
of my existence.
My perception of going to the Mental Health Unit was
negative. Fear of the unknown. I had no idea what was behind those doors. I
assumed they were going to strap me to a bed or put me in a padded room. I have
never been there before. I didn’t know what my illness consisted of at the
time. Was I crazy? Was I insane? I didn’t know what I was. I was confused, sad,
and frustrated. I had Depression for years and never seek help. This was my
chance to get better. I hadn’t eaten in days and had lost 15 pounds. I didn’t
care about my appearance. My beard was gross and messy. I didn’t care. I could
have died that very moment. It didn’t matter. I was at an all-time low. But I
was in the right place.
I was ashamed of my ‘condition’. I was scared
someone would see me there. It’s a small town. I could hear it now, “The Head
Coach of the Mariners is in the Psych Unit. He must be nuts.” I was cautious. I
didn’t want anyone to know. I didn’t understand Mental Health Illness at that
point in my life. I just knew I wasn’t feeling good for a long time and I need
help, desperately. I was even scared of the nurses for some of the time. I was
medicated. The days went on. At first, some of the initial days on the Unit
were bad. I had a terrible mood and no energy. I hated life. My attitude to
being there was not good, and attitude is everything. I had to change that,
first and foremost. Accept that I am where I am because I am sick. I needed to
be there. I was finally getting help. Once I accepted that I was in the Mental
Health Unit, and that is a good thing, things began to turn around for me.
Accepting my illness was critical to my recovery.
That acceptance led me to January 27, 2016. Since I
had a public job, I felt it was time to break my silence. I publicly, through
social media, told friends, family, and strangers that I suffer from
Depression. What a weight off my shoulders. I felt relieved that I didn’t have
to put on a mask every day and perform an act to hide what was wrong with me.
The support was incredible. I was ready to fight this illness, along with
whoever wanted to join the cause. I made a promise to myself then that I am no longer
hiding my illness and that I want to help others who suffer. I decided to make
my journey open so it could help and inspire other people to get help.
So, within three weeks, I went from almost killing
myself with carbon monoxide poisoning to accepting my illness and telling the
world. Not bad, if you ask me. I gained back the 15 pounds I lost earlier that
month. I had more hope and less guilt. I was released from the hospital on
January 29, 2016. The nurses and doctors warned me not to try to conquer the
world all at once. I don’t think I tried that, but I did push my limits, to
gauge what I could and could not do. I started my Blog. I tried purposely going
to social settings to see how I would react being around other people. It wasn’t
bad. My parents left to go home to Newfoundland when I told them I felt good. I
was on my own for the first time.
It wasn’t a bad start. I actually felt good. I was
about six weeks into my medications. Then one night, out of the blue, I couldn’t
stop looking at my utensil drawer and obsessing over the knives and slitting my
wrist. “What if?” and “Who would find me dead?” were consistent thoughts that
night. I had to return to the hospital. I felt like a failure and that it was a
step back. I was falling back but progressing forward all at the same time. I
didn’t understand it at the time, but looking back now, that’s what happened.
I spent some more weeks in the hospital. My father
came back to Nova Scotia. The doctor switched up my medication to see if
something else would work. I felt like we were starting all over again. It was
difficult for me to see at the time, but now I know the difference. My attitude
staggered again, but I regained focused and decided this is not the end for me.
I fought and fought. I felt failing was not an option. I wasn’t going to let
this minor relapse stop me.
I again got discharged from the hospital. Much like
the first time, I was feeling good. Things seemed to be better for me. I could
cope with most things. I didn’t get discouraged as easily. I was somewhat
happy. I knew then each day would be a challenge for me, but something I was
willing to defy myself. I thought it was the last time I would have to go to
the hospital. I was wrong.
I went back a third time because I made some stupid
decisions. Much like life itself, I am not always going to make the right
choice or decision and I must be responsible and accountable for my actions. I
went on a three-day bender. Not wise, but I felt I could handle it. I was in
the wrong. I had to go back to the hospital. It wasn’t a long return, but an
imperative one. Doctor told me not to drink anymore. I concurred. I have been dry for a month now. Longest span of my adulthood. I don’t
get the urge to drink, which is good. I prevailed, again.
My road is still going to be long. I am willing to
scratch and claw to enjoy every breath I take. A few months ago, I would have
been content taking my last breath. Now, my mindset is different, thanks to
medications, doctors, nurses, friends, family, and ECT treatments. I am a
battler. I have been through hell. It’s scary, but it is possible to get out of
there. I used to fear being alone with my thoughts. Terrified of where they
would take me. I have more control over them now. I control the Demons, to a
certain degree. When they become present, I am more capable of enduring the
fight. I can handle it now. I can help others endure them as well. People will
say I am in over my head. Your opinion means absolutely zero to me. This is my
fight and I have a battle plan. Helping others helps me.
There is hope. Again, no idea if I am Depression-free
yet. Maybe that day will come. Maybe it won’t. Regardless if it shows its ugly
face again, I am ready and willing to fight for my life. I am not going to hide
behind a computer screen. I am strong. I hope I give strength and inspiration
to others. I won’t lie, I wasn’t quite sure who to turn to or talk to. It was
confusing. Well, I am here to advocate transparency and the truth behind the
illness. A lot of people will not understand your Depression, but I do. I knew
there was something up in high school over twelve years ago. I didn’t know who
to turn to. I was scared. I have lost that fear now. I don’t fear Depression
anymore or the thoughts that may come from it. Rather, it is Depression that
should fear me. I have been doing great. Feeling great about myself. Enjoying
life a more. Being a better person. Yeah, I may be broke and jobless, but my
attitude determines how I cope with that. My attitude is unbelievable right now.
I am OK with being in a financial hole. I am healthy and positive. If you
struggle with a Mental Illness, stay resilient. Try to stay positive. Seek the
necessary help. Do not be ashamed. Break your silence and accept your illness.
Remember, your illness does not define you as a person. You define you. Your attitude
and character can be stronger than an illness. If you decide to fight, do
whatever is necessary, you will begin to win. Trust me when I say I thought I
was dead. I am not there anymore. Not even close. I was in the deepest hole
possible. But my attitude and character was my ladder out of it. I feel great
and I am kicking this illnesses’ ass!
“Our lives are not determined by what happens to us
but how we react to what happens, not by what life brings us but the attitude
we bring to life.”
-Wade
Boggs
Yours Truly,
T.J. Smith
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